Silent Hill: The Bat
by The Grey Ghoul
Summary: I know it cannot be true.  Rachel died that day.  But I got a letter from her.  She says she's waiting for me.  In a little town called Silent Hill...
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Hello everyone! Man, it's been just a little over a year since I posted something. Almost like my mind was on a timer, I came up with this new idea for a crossover. While I can't seem to shake free of the whole Nolanverse Batman, I have managed to make a new addition. There's nothing quite as immersive as a survival horror video game, and if anyone has played one, you'll know what I'm talking about. Some years ago this particular game gained popularity outside the video gamers' community when they made it a movie: **_**Silent Hill**_**. **_

_**This idea struck me not even a week ago, but it hasn't let go of me since. So…even though I am still working on my novel (the reason I put my other fanfics on hold) I decided to bang these thoughts out in the form of Chapter One.**_

_**Even if you've never watched or played Silent Hill, my fanfiction is a suitable story for you to read because the nature of **_**Silent Hill**_** is that not much is explained and it's left to your conclusions. That is what makes this mysterious tale so eerie and the game so terrifying.**_

_**This story is set post-TDK. I don't have a time setting for the Silent Hill aspect though. I don't think the laws of time apply to Silent Hill. **_

_**I changed my name from Grace Dark to Grace Harney. When my book gets published, God-willing, that name is going to be on the cover as the author. So I guess keep your eyes open, LOL. **_

_**A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have read my stories in the past and who kindly kept me on their Author Alert List all this time. A personal hello to Lasgalendil and J-Horror Girl. Ladies, it's been too long. **_

_**Enjoy. **_

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter One**_

_Dear Bruce._

The open envelope is sitting beside me on the passenger seat. The letter is folded and hidden inside. I glance over. It seems to be channeling her. Her gentle, husky voice. Always a little more patient with me. Forever giving me the one extra chance she would spare no one else. Extending her grace just slightly further for my sake.

_A long time ago, you vanished from my life. But you came back. _

I only read it once. Eidetic memory. Once is enough to have it memorized. Enough to know how many words rested on each line of the loose-leaf paper. Enough to have noticed the droplet of blue ink on the page, where there had been a flaw at the factory during its printing. Enough to allow Bruce the chance to believe the impossible.

She's still alive.

But I know the truth. I know the certainty of that particular impossibility. Batman knows when he's being tricked. When he has been. Joker will not do it again. I will not underestimate him again. But that initial time was one too many. It was too costly. A loss unbearable. Irreparable. Unforgivable.

_I don't know how I did it, but I dragged myself through those years without you._

It's night. My favorite time of the day. Silence. Darkness. Peace. And then the demons come out. The lights along the interstate glimmer past every few moments, reflecting off my windshield. The air whips past my armored vehicle, which is a fleeting shadow on the straight cement road. I cruise past speed limit signs at a hundred-and-thirty miles per hour. All it takes is a split second glance at the signs above the roadway to know how far off I am. Silent Hill. Exit 6A. Sixty-seven miles.

_After a few years though, I just had to get away from it all. From the people. From the office. From the city. _

I glance at the letter again. The postmark is from two days ago. New York State zip code. Ordinary postage stamp that can be purchased at any post office around the nation. Standard white security envelope. No hairs or dirt. No trace evidence of any kind. Except – her fingerprints. How do I know they're hers? The District Attorney's Office has fingerprints of all employees, current and former. Typical procedure for all workers. Even the janitors had their fingerprints on file. There was no mistake. Thirty-point match on one-hundred percent of samples collected. Perfect likeness. Undeniably her. Former Assistant DA., Miss Rachel Dawes.

Unless the evidence has been planted.

_So I came to Silent Hill. _

I glance at another sign. Silent Hill. Exit 6A. Forty-seven miles.

_I forgot how peaceful it is here. Like the rest of the world doesn't exist anymore, and there's nothing but this modest little town, with its local church and hospital, elementary school and lakeside park. A society existing all by itself in perfect harmony. There's no place like it on earth, Bruce. _

The way she said my name in that letter. _Bruce._ Like it was really her. I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. Bruce believes.

Batman wants to believe. But he knows better. I loosen my grip on the wheel. Holding it too tightly is dangerous. The power-steering is very sensitive. I look up as the next sign flashes by overhead, practically a blur. Silent Hill. Exit 6A. Twenty-seven miles.

_After everything, I just thought it would be nice if I came back here again. You know. Just to get away. I'm not sure if you'd want to see me, though. You must be angry with me for not telling you sooner. But I'm here now. I'll wait for you if you want to come see me. It would make me happy if you did. I thought about you so much in this place the last time. It would be wonderful if you were here with me this time. _

Exit 6A. Next right.

_Love, always, Rachel. _

Not another soul passes by on the interstate. When the partition in the road appears, I slow down, driving over the lanes to the right. Then I glide into the curving exit ramp. It swirls downward in a complete circle, making me dip slightly to the left with centrifugal force.

At the end of the exit is an intersection with blinking orange lights. Glancing quickly around I take a right, following an old rusty sign that says, _Welcome to Silent Hill._

Not much marks the sides of the long straight road, and after a few initial pairs of flickering street lights, the street lies in darkness. I already have my high beams on, but seeing no signs, houses or lights made me wonder if I should turn around. Perhaps I have missed a turn back there somewhere, and this road just leads to a dead end. Tall grass flutters on the roadside as I race by.

I begin to slow down, wondering if I should turn off this straight road and find another direction to go. But just then the road takes a deep curve. Maybe it does lead somewhere. I notice that it starts to lead me downhill gradually. Trees have sprung up from the tall grass on the right, and a black cliff side rises up on the left. The road has lost its purposeful rigidity and has become a snake of swerves and bends. No signs are posted to caution drivers to slow down at dangerous turns.

The incline tilts deeper downward, and the turns don't let up. The only lights in the darkness are my bright white high beams and glowing green dashboard, throwing a relief of fluttering shadows in the blackness outside.

I glance again at the letter. Just for a moment. But in that moment, as unlikely and impossible as it is, there is a slender figure in the dead center of my path. The glance does not even last long enough for her to walk out there. But there she is. As bright as the high beams are, her features elude me, save for skin bleached of color by the headlights and a sheet of shoulder-length, dark hair. Her dress flutters up slightly as I hurtle toward her. My dashboard flickers and the high beams go black. The engine dies abruptly. Thick suffocating silence.

I don't get a chance to see if she flinches. I have no time to turn on night vision on my helmet. I slam the breaks with both my feet and spin the wheel to the right, going with the turn of the road. There is no impact at the expected moment, but the vehicle whirls out of control. The wheel fights in my grip as the tires grind against the edges of the road.

Then the Tumbler slams into the cliff side, coming to a dead stop. The only sound is of little rocks and twigs breaking free of the cliff wall and tapping on the roof of the car. The dashboard flickers and the Tumbler comes to life again, the high beams reaching over the curve in the road.

Momentarily stunned, I resettle myself in my seat. I check my seatbelt to make sure the mechanisms are not jammed from the crash.

The Tumbler is voice activated, so I mutter, "Engine, on."

But there is no response. My dashboard doesn't even inform me that there is a problem. Ordinarily, if the engine is malfunctioning, the Tumbler will give me a status report and diagnosis.

I undo the seat belt again and turn off the vehicle, plunging myself in darkness once more. When I open the hatch, the entire windshield slides up as the roof rises in unison. The left side of the outer door scrapes against the wall of the cliff, unearthing more stones and dirt. Then I turn on the night vision on my visor.

I pick up the letter and store it inside one of the empty evidence compartments on my belt. I guess I'll have to walk. Rachel says she's waiting for me.

* * *

**_Note: I'm not sure how many people noticed the error, but the Tumbler's door opens from the top, like the other previous Batmobiles. I should have checked before writing about it. I fixed the error, so sorry to those who read the mistake. _**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

Before I continue along the road on foot, I go back a few yards along the asphalt to check for any signs of blood or carnage. I know I didn't hit her, but nevertheless, I might have grazed her. But except for the skid marks made by the tires on my Tumbler, there is no sign of anyone or anything. Checking every inch of the edge of the trees yields no clue. Not a dry leaf is crushed to pieces, not a twig is broken to signify that someone stepped here recently.

The bark on the trees appears intact. No hair is trapped in the rough fibers or fabric caught on branches.

I return to the spot I calculate the woman was standing, but then I check the skid marks. If I estimated correctly, I should have hit her. I slammed the breaks but the car did not stop. I step to the beginning of the skid marks. She should have stood just a few yards in front of it. The estimated spot she stood overlaps with the twisting tire marks. Considering the velocity at which I was travelling, I should have hit her. There was no doubt in my mind about that. But there was no impact except for when I hit the cliff wall.

I return to the Tumbler and check for signs of collision. There's nothing on the front of the vehicle. But I can't check the left side, the side with which I would have hit the woman. The left is flush against the cliff. Irritated that I can't be thorough, I turn away and continue along the curving road.

Finally I allow myself to ask the emotional questions. Who is that woman? Is it coincidence that she looked like Rachel? Is it Rachel? Or am I just hallucinating? Is there something in the air? Some earthly gases rising up into the night from a deep crack in the crust? The Ancient Greek oracle at Delphi rested at one of these crevasses, unwittingly breathing in gas that contributed to alleged visions. I am reluctant to leave the spot that I have just seen Rachel. I shake my head at myself. Already I have assumed that the woman _is_ Rachel. I have no proof. In fact, just up until two days ago, I only had proof of the opposite. But now, I also have proof that she is alive. I pat the compartment on my belt and start walking.

I stick to the wall of the cliff. There is hardly a breeze as I march along, my boots crunching on the muddy gravel at the base. Glancing up, I see that the cliff appears easy to scale, but might contain many loose pockets of dirt and rocks.

When I first received the letter, I debated coming here as Bruce. She addressed the letter to Bruce, not Batman. But now I know that I made the right choice. If I had arrived here as Bruce, I would have crashed just the same, but I might have been injured. The resiliency of the Tumbler and the intelligence of its design kept me from even getting so much as whiplash.

My cape hangs down heavily, almost like it is weighted with rocks sewn along the hem. There are many advantages to having the cape, especially since it allows me to fly. The fabric is custom made, designed to become rigid like a glider when a mild electrical current is passed through it. Besides that, it can be used as a formidable weapon, to blind or suffocate my attackers. It's also very slippery, so if someone tries to grab me from behind, I can easily slip out of their grip. Because of its minimally reflective quality, it can camouflage me more effectively than my armor, which is more reflective than the cape.

My thoughts wander back to the letter from Rachel. It would have been suicide coming here as Bruce. None of this could be possible. Rachel is dead. _Bruce, she's dead_, I think. Barely six months had passed since she was kidnapped by Maroni's men and killed.

After walking for about half a mile, the air begins to grow moist. The mist renders my night vision useless, so I turn it off, opting to go walking in the dark. A flashlight will do well enough, even though the beam illuminates the mist as well as the ground.

The air is very still now, not one breeze comes my way. I notice that there are no sounds of insects, but a heavy silence. Now and then there is the rustling of branches, even though there is no wind. Sometimes a twig cracks across the road in the woods, as though someone is walking along with me. Whipping the beam across into the trees reveals nothing. There is no movement whatsoever.

I stop walking and look into the woods, waiting for more sounds. Another twig cracks. Branches creak together. Then silence.

I resume walking, and within a few steps, arrive at a bridge. Scanning the flashlight around, I notice a booth. It is empty, and sports a small sign that says, "Welcome to Silent Hill."

I sweep the flashlight around the area, and find no sign of anyone. There is a small parking lot, enough for about five or six cars. A single car is parked there, the license plate says New York. I turn to go to the car when I hear a growl. I freeze. The beam of light shines through the swirling mist, choked by the moisture in the air.

The growl is followed by snarling breathing. It sounds several feet away, behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. I swing the light around. Nothing is in sight. But I can still hear the animalistic grunts and growls. My eyes come to rest on the booth. The sound is coming from there.

I approach the booth, the mist blocking my sight of the other end of the short bridge. It is wide enough only for one car to drive upon it. There is still water below, the smell of fish and moss enters my nose.

As I approach the booth, I start to hear a high-pitched, electrical whining, like radio feedback. The growls become louder.

The booth's window is almost above eye level, so I have to raise myself up a little on my toes before I shine the light inside. Much of the light reflects back at me, but some manages to illuminate what is within. The radio feedback heightens to shrill, intermittent with heavy static. But that is not what catches my attention. The entire lower half of the booth is soaked with blood and bits of flesh, with a corpse being devoured by only what can be described as hyenas. Huge muscular beasts with bloody, lesioned, furless flesh. They dug through the intestines and gnawed at the contents within the ribcage.

The brightness of the blood is so jarring that my heart begins to pound within me. But the flashlight catches their attention. With growls of irritation they turn to the light, squinting their bloody eyes at the brightness. I take a step back, and watch as they slowly trot out of the booth and begin to circle around me. The radio feedback sounds continuously inside the booth.

Any moment now, I know one of them will pounce. Discolored saliva drips from their teeth, their snouts soaked with blood from their recent feed. I reach to my belt and equip a batarang.

They start to jog around me, about to come in for an attack. Then with a deep-throated bark, one of them pounces at me. I fling the batarang at it, and the black metal slices its throat. It bowls into me with a yelp while the other one chooses that moment to leap at me. The flashlight flies out of my hand and skids to the ground, the beam of light waving wildly and then grinding to a halt, shining its beam at the bridge.

I utter a cry as I feel their teeth clamp down against my armor. They are not able to bite through, but they make some prominent teeth marks. I begin to grapple with the two beasts. They repeatedly go for my throat and tear at my cowl.

The two of them together are able to hold me down, rendering me unable to fight against them. They are as large as Great Danes, and possibly even more powerful with deadly jaws. I hear one of the plates in my armor crack from a bite.

Then abruptly I hear a gunshot. It startles the dogs as well as myself, and one of the dogs slumps down, dead from a well-placed headshot. I turn to the bridge, the direction from which I think the gunshot came. Sure enough, there is another spark of light from behind the mist as the gunman fires again, and the second beast slumps down on top of me. With a couple of twitches, it succumbs to death. I push the animal away from me and jump to my feet, breathing hard.

The gunman approaches me slowly, his feet stepping into the beam of the fallen flashlight. I pick up the light and shine it on a young man of about seventeen. He studies me curiously, his handgun aimed directly at me in perfect form. After several moments he lowers the gun. "Dude, what the fuck are you wearing?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

Ignoring him and his snide remark about my multi-million dollar, custom-made armor-suit, I dust myself off, wiping the beast's spittle from my face with disgust. I check the armor plate shielding my left shoulder. There, under the fluorescent glow of my flashlight, is a visible crack the width of a hair. I glance down at the beast. Its powerful jaw lies slack and open, a diseased, thick tongue lolling out. I look up at the teenager, who has lost his interest in me almost as immediately as it was kindled.

He reaches into his pocket, rifling through some loose bullets for his revolver. Pulling out a couple of rounds, he clicks open the cylinder and chambers the bullets. I watch him as he easily snaps the fully loaded cylinder into place and spins it. It is almost just a toy to him. I keep my face stolid as I despise the weapon he holds. He cannot even begin to imagine what the sight of it does to me. All over again the small weapon promises devastating consequences. A little piece of lead for a little piece of my soul.

I tear my eyes away from the boy and the gun. Still, I have to hand it to the kid, even if I will never express it. He is a very good shot, considering the frantically moving targets and limited visibility. As a matter of fact, my flashlight was shining into his eyes when he took those two shots. Actually, he could have easily missed and shot me. In the face no less, which is the most vulnerable part of my body. The beast's head was inches from mine.

"What are you, on your way to a costume party?" He snickers before he raises his head.

Without answering, I turn to look at the booth where the beasts were feeding. The radio feedback has stopped completely. Total silence hangs heavily in the air. I turn back to look at him, casting the beam of light over him. He wears a pair of baggy jeans and a green hooded sweatshirt, his straight blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail. There is stubble on his face and grey circles around his eyes, suggesting, at the very least, that he has not showered for some time or caught any rest. Some dark stains mark his clothes and hair. As he walks towards me, his footsteps sound hollowly on the narrow wooden bridge. His gun is still raised slightly, his left hand cupping the base of the grip. He is a little mistrustful of me, but very curious, raking his eyes over me. As he comes close I notice that the dark spots on his clothes and in his hair are blood stains. "Are you involved in some kind of special ops?" He asks me.

With a lingering glance at him, wondering whose blood he wears, I turn away to the booth, the flashlight illuminating my path. Perhaps there is a phone inside that I can use to report the grisly death within.

Careful to avoid the splatters of blood and bits of flesh, I step over to the corded phone. Beside it sits an old radio, the shell made of faded red plastic, a single speaker on the front. The antenna is broken. I pick up the receiver and listen for a dial tone. It is very faint, and punctuated with silent pauses and sporadic static. I dial 9-1-1.

"Hello…oper…Wha…gency?"

I frown at the deplorable connection. "I want to report a death. I'm at the town of Silent Hill—"

"Hello…? …Mergenc...any…there?"

"I'm at Silent Hill. There's a dead body here."

"…Lo? Stay…the…Please….on…line. …Hang…Don't…up."

Sighing softly, I oblige, realizing the woman has not heard a single word that passed my lips. I place the receiver down beside the phone, knowing that police will show up eventually.

The young man joins me at the booth, halting in shock at the blood. "Holy shit," he breathes. He slowly looks around at the carnage, unable to tear his gaze away, mouth hanging open. Finally he closes his eyes, setting his face grimly. As he turns away, he mutters, "I'll never get used to this."

I narrow my eyes and watch as he walks outside. Through the glass windows of the booth I study him as he rolls his shoulders and sighs nervously. He checks the revolver's chambers. Then after a very short while, practically seized with paranoia, he checks the cylinder again. Twice in less than two minutes.

For the time being I believe he is capable of standing outside on his own, although he turns back to look at me every few moments, as though worried that I might disappear and leave him alone. While I keep an eye on him, I pick up the red radio with my gloved hand. I examine the item, noticing that it is turned on, with the volume dial pushed to the highest it will go. I use the tuner to scan the stations, but I receive not one sound. Although it was working well enough to emit shrill static merely minutes ago, now it seems completely broken. I pop open the battery case, sticking the flashlight in my mouth so both my hands are free. The batteries look new enough but they might be too weak. But my curiosity is peaked. Why did it work before and not now? I pocket the radio, returning the settings to how they were when I picked it up. It is just small enough to fit into one of the compartments on my belt.

When I exit the booth, the boy turns around. "So are we getting the fuck out of this place or what?"

I give him a glance as I walk by him, heading toward the abandoned car. The beam of light bounces as I walk nearer. It might be Rachel's, although I do not recall her driving a car like this.

The boy comes nearer slowly. As I open the driver side door—it is unlocked—I glance quickly at him, and to my surprise he has his weapon trained on me. His finger is already curled through the trigger guard and his left palm cups the grip to steady his aim. He pulls the hammer back. "Are you one of them?"

"One of whom?" I ask, my voice disguised in its characteristic gravelly rumble.

He nods his head toward the bridge, obviously referring to the town on the other side. "One of the fucking crazies that live there."

I shake my head. "I don't live in Silent Hill."

He lowers the gun slightly. "You're not going to turn on me, are you?"

I cannot surpass the irony of the statement. He is the one pointing the gun at me. But I see him for what he is. A child. I shake my head and return to searching the car.

Lowering my head inside the musty smelling vehicle and scanning the light around, I find nothing of value. Now I am certain this is not Rachel's car. It does not smell like her perfume and I see some personal items in the back that could not possibly be hers. They are a slightly flat basketball and some gym clothes. On the passenger seat is an open wallet. The driver's license is expired and faded. I check the photograph. It is a middle aged man with very thin brown hair on his scalp but a very heavy moustache. His name is marked as Andrew K. Hughes. He is not a person I recognize.

At the foot of the front passenger seat are some empty beer cans. The car is about ten or fifteen years old, and looks weathered inside and out. Rust marks the edges of the metal, where the paint has been eaten away, and inside are water stains from rain leaked inside the car.

I find one sealed beer can on the floor. However, when I pick it up, it is totally empty, as though the beer magically vanished from within. I shine the light on the concave base of the can and check the manufacturing date. As I guessed, the can dates from fourteen years ago.

Opening the glove compartment, I find an expired insurance card and registration. What happened to the owner? The key is still in the ignition, the rust welding it inside. With a little effort I turn the key with a cracking groan. But nothing happens. The car does not start. Turning on the headlights also does nothing. The battery is long dead. Rattling the key free of the ignition, I turn over the Megadeth and Metallica key chains in my gloved hand. The other key must open the trunk. I slam the driver's side door shut.

When I step to the back, the interior of the trunk reveals nothing but a dry, stained cooler and some evaporated bottles of water.

Closing the trunk, I pocket the paperwork and keys. I will investigate this man's disappearance later.

As I am about to put the keys away, the young man asks me to wait a moment. He walks over, his eyes on the keys. "They look familiar."

"Does this car belong to anyone you know?"

He shakes his head. "But it just gives me a sense of déjà vu."

I withdraw the wallet and show him the photograph on the license. "Do you recognize this man?"

The boy studies the photo for a very long time. I shine the flashlight on it to give him a clearer view. Finally he turns away. "No. But it gives me a bad feeling." He looks up at me. He is about six or seven inches shorter than my six feet and two inches. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm not leaving yet."

Incredulous, the boy watches me as I head toward the bridge. "You can't go in there. You'll never survive."

The boy cannot possibly know this about me, but I am the quintessential survivor. I step onto the bridge.

The boy jogs after me and grabs my arm. "Trust me, dude, you'll get killed in there. You couldn't even take on those two dogs. How do you expect to handle what's inside? You don't even have a gun. You would've died if it wasn't for me."

"No I wouldn't have." I've fought ferocious dogs in the past, and not too long ago. I had not forgotten how strong an animal could be.

Disbelievingly, he points back to the two dead beasts. "You were about to get your ass handed to you in little bloody pieces." Then he back away and shakes his left hand at me. "If you're trying to save face or whatever, I understand. But you've got to believe me when I tell you, you will not survive."

"If you don't want to come with me, don't come." I walk across the bridge, my footsteps heavy and plunking on the hollow wood.

I can feel the boy's eyes staring after me. "I'm not coming with you!" He warns.

I keep going.

"You'll leave Silent Hill if you know what's good for you!"

I don't turn back.

Finally I hear him shout through the mist, "I'm outta here!"

At last, I look over my shoulder. I see nothing but shifting mists. And before me lies a long road that disappears into fog. Silent Hill.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

I scan the empty street before me. Fog blankets the road, illuminated by my flashlight. I cannot see more than a few feet in front of me. Small dark particles drift slowly down, like snow. Catching some, I smear a fleck of it on my glove, leaving a tiny gray streak. I smell it. Ash. I look around once more. I do not smell a fire, yet there is ash floating through the air. I do not know of any active volcano in the vicinity. Frowning at the mysterious ash, I press on deeper into town.

About one block into the town stands a closed gas station. I am about to pass it up when I notice a kiosk under the awning covering the gas pumps. On the kiosk it says, _Welcome to Silent Hill. _Shining the beam over the letters, I walk closer, my footsteps echoing over the stretch of asphalt. Unlike the booth at the bridge, this is not the site of some gruesome death. It is an innocent information stand. I rifle through the pamphlets available, some of them listing the sights of Silent Hill. Others listed seasonal festivals. One of the slots for the pamphlets holds the last of its kind. I pick it up and study the front. It displays a cozy motel situated on the bank of a serene lake. Opening it up, I notice this pamphlet contains a map of Silent Hill. I am surprised at the negligible size of the town. There are no more than three or four main streets. On one of the edges of the town is a cemetery. On another edge lies Toluca Lake. Naturally, the motel pictured on the front of the pamphlet is circled in red, obviously to point out the location. However, I find it strange that the creators of the pamphlet would deem it necessary to circle something so easily spotted on the tiny map. Then I notice something. Tilting the paper a little, I realize that the circle is not part of the printing of the map. Someone has circled it by hand.

Stumped by the peculiarity, I store the map in my belt. I have not forgotten that someone was following me as I walked along the cliff. He or she had been following me in the woods, even though the person avoided being seen. Scanning the streets reflexively, I walk along the path I know will lead me to the motel.

I discover that all stores are closed, as though the town has been completely evacuated. I even try to get a look inside some of the stores with windows that are not boarded up properly. Nothing but darkness lies within. When I shine a light inside, it reveals nothing more than a mundane shop or some place of business. Nothing of interest lies around here. I must get to the motel.

Progressing slowly through the dark streets, my flashlight struggling against the fog, I keep an eye out for street signs. This town is so small that the city council did not even deem it necessary to have street lights. Even one of the biggest intersections in town is not equipped with one. But then I see why. The intersection is gone. Just like that, the road drops from view, and when I shine the light down, I see a gaping chasm at my feet. Just then I let out a breath of air. I realize how tense I am. How tightly wound I have been the whole time. My heart pounds in my chest as I see just how close I came to falling into the giant hole. It is so vast that I doubt that my grapple gun will even be able to reach the other side. On the other hand, I cannot even see the other side. From where I stand, it appears to go on forever, as though the earth has suddenly turned flat, and I am at its end.

I lean slowly over the edge. Some rocks are dislodged from under my feet and they fall in. I listen to hear them hit the bottom, but the sound never comes. Knowing that my hearing is not mistaken, but also knowing that it must be the only explanation for me missing the sound, I pick up another rock and drop it down. The noises of it hitting the side as it falls fade away. They do not just stop. This hole appears to be miles deep. What could possibly do that? And who would do that in the middle of a town?

I search around for construction equipment, but see nothing of the kind. It is as though a meteorite crashed down and disintegrated completely, leaving a deep gash in the earth.

Then suddenly, about a half a block behind me, I hear stumbling footsteps. I look over my shoulder, but of course, in the darkness, I can see nothing. The flashlight is next to useless in the fog, but it is better than nothing.

Abruptly, the radio I picked up earlier crackles to life. The static is muffled by the utility belt's compartment.

I walk toward the footsteps. The static grows louder and louder, even though I have not even touched the volume dial. In the quiet of the night, it is deafeningly loud. The sound is a distortion on my senses, distracting me from the sound I want to focus on—the footsteps.

Squinting through the fog, I finally notice the silhouette of a drunken person, staggering on his feet. I continued closer, realizing that the person was moving far too erratically for a drunk. His movements were more akin to a string of seizures. When I am about ten feet away, I am amazed that he is still able to stand. I stop walking nearer and watch him warily.

The static's volume reaches its height just then, and the person turns around with a guttural growl. In his spastic way, he stalks closer. I raise my flashlight up a little and my stomach turns over. My blood runs cold like it never has before. Its face is almost disfigured beyond human resemblance. Thick stitches of sackcloth are crisscrossed into its very skin in place of eyes. The jagged folds of flesh that give the mouth an opening are sewn shut and the skin twitches incessantly, drawing black blood. The eyes leak blood as though they were tears. Its skin is slimy like a corpse that has been rotting for days, discolored by decay. Its skin is spread tightly over its entire body, stretching down over the chin and keeping its arms folded in place, like a straight jacket. A huge opening lies over its chest, the ribs practically tearing through its flesh. I take a step back, repulsed. It writhes ceaselessly, its head twitching so fast I think its neck might break. It is as though it is trying to free itself from its own skin, like it cannot bear to spend another moment within. It stumbles forward a couple of steps. I move away quickly.

As the radio static screams in my ears, my heart is hammering in my chest. And as the humanoid creature arches its back, I realize that I am shaking from a rush of adrenaline brought on by fear. Making retching noises that seem to originate in its belly, it straightens forward from its arch. It swings from side to side as it advances toward me, and I jump back some more. Suddenly a black fluid like putrid bile launches from its open sore, catching me right in the chest. I stagger back with a cry as the creature gurgles disgustingly. I drop the flashlight and it skids away, the light facing away from me.

All of a sudden I hear a gentle hissing, and realize that the black fluid is eating away at my armor. I have no time to waste. The thing is arching back again to release the acid at me. This time I am ready. I dodge the flying liquid and it splatters on the asphalt behind me.

As I flank the creature while it recovers, the acid stops eating through my armor. Feeling a momentary burst of relief, I bash my right fist in the side of its head. My fist _thwacks_ loudly against the head, as though it has no skull. The creature's head whips to the side, and it starts turning toward me. Before it has a chance to face me, I use my left hand, dealing a blow to the other side of its head. My fist leaves a dent in its head. It twitches and sinks to the ground, writhing uncontrollably at my feet. Panting hard, I watch it as it struggles to get to its feet. As it manages to get to its knees, I kick it back down. It growls in protest. Instinctively, I raise my foot and stomp on its head, sending decomposed brain matter and blood spraying everywhere. At last, it stops moving. The static on the radio stops dead.

Freeing my boot from the mess, I stare down at the creature, aghast. _What is this thing_? I think.

I lick my lips nervously, and taste my sweat on my upper lip. I wonder if it will wake up. But as I wait for something even more nightmarish to happen to the corpse, it does not.

_Rachel. _She is out there. I feel a surge of fear for her. What if she is in danger?

I bend down and pick up the flashlight. I catch a whiff of the acid that is on my chest, and the stench almost knocks me out. I cough, my eyes start to water. I have nothing with which to clean it away. So I wander into someone's yard and find some laundry hung out to dry. I use a T-shirt to wipe the stuff away, and watch it eat away at the shirt. My armor is ruined. The symbol of the bat is gone. In its place is the uneven texture of which the acid ate away at the plating.

I use more laundry to wipe my fists clean. There is a slippery residue left over from hitting the creature. As I turn to leave, I notice an old axe leaning against the fence. I walk up to it and pause. I pick it up after a moment. This might come in handy.

I spend a moment getting my bearings, and I try to circumvent the giant gaping hole. After several tries all throughout the town, which is practically perforated with such holes, the last route I decide to take lets me reach the entrance to the motel. The parking lot is sparsely filled with cars.

I look up at the windows. There are two floors. All the lights are off save for one window. But then I realize that the light is flickering. It is a flame.

I stand there, thinking, wondering if Rachel is there. The fog swirls mysteriously.

Then the silence is broken as the radio crackles again. Instantly alerted, I look away from the window. Far off somewhere, in apparently more than one direction, I hear the same unsteady footsteps. They are coming for me again. I look up at the window. To my shock, there is no light. Now all the windows lie in darkness.

As the static grows louder, I decide to take refuge in the motel. My heart already quickening, I go inside the dark lobby and close the door behind me.

The static continues gently. When I look out of the window I see about three of the creatures gather in the parking lot.

To further assure that they cannot come inside, I use a heavy umbrella from a nearby stand to push through the door hands. Even if they decided to break down the door, at least I will be given a warning.

I turn away from the doors and gaze around the dark lobby. I have to find Rachel.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

A quick look around the lobby provides a map of the building. Upstairs every room is a motel room with a single room marked as the janitor's closet. Downstairs are the maintenance closets and the office and the rest are all motel rooms. There is another room that reads, _Basement/Roof Access. _I imagine it is a staircase that only employees use.

I jump up over the reception desk and try the light switches on the wall. None of them work. Perhaps later I will go to the basement and check the electrical breakers. Behind the counter is a desk drawer of organized keys. Each is marked with a number, obviously corresponding to the room numbers of the doors that they open. A quick search reveals that only one set of keys is missing. Room 218. Assuming that 218 is the room in which I previously saw a candle burning, I swing the flashlight around to the door leading into the office. I try the door, and it creaks open. I take a peek inside. Shining the light inside, I see several file cabinets and papers strewn about. Against the wall on the left is a book shelf. To my surprise, there is a man in a chair, bent over his knees. His shoulders tremble and I believe he is crying.

I push the door wider and step inside. He gasps. His head bolts upward as he reaches for a shotgun beside him. The weapon rattles in his hands. He pumps the weapon, taking aim.

"Don't shoot," I say. In the dark it is possible that he will mistake me for a…a monster. Standing at over six muscular feet and dressed all in black, there would be something wrong with him if he is not frightened.

He squints through his tear-filled eyes, the flashlight bright in the dark room. He lowers the weapon and reaches for a light of his own. It is an industrial flashlight that can be adjusted into a lamp. He flicks on the switch. After a long suspicious stare at my attire, he stands up and walks toward me, the shotgun raised up to my chest. I raise my hands up. "I'm unarmed," I say quietly.

He ignores my words. "Did she send you?"

I stare back appraisingly at the nervous man. He seems to be middle-aged, with a mess of thinning brown hair and remarkable green eyes wide with recent terror. He is wearing a grease-stained wind jacket and dirty jeans. Dirt is lodged under his long fingernails and he looks—and smells—like he has not bathed in days.

"Who?"

A flash of anger passes through his face. "You know who!" He shrieks. "You bastard!" He fires the shotgun. A resounding boom tears through the room, leaving a ringing in my ears. The majority of the metal pellets do not penetrate my armor, but some get through the parts eaten by the monster's acid outside. A cry rips from my throat as I fly backwards against another book shelf. Stunned from the gunshot, I cough. The man pumps the shotgun again, but it is empty of shells. Uttering a cry of rage, he turns the gun's grip on me and begins to beat me with it.

As I try to grab the gun myself, I notice that the bookshelf I fell against has tilted away from the wall, leaning its weight on me. Some of the books fall out as he barrages me with the end of the shotgun. When he leans away to hit me again, I slide all the way to the floor. The book shelf groans and all the hard-back volumes fall out on top of the man. He cries out in pain as several of the books crash on top of his head. He drops the shotgun and catches the bookshelf to keep it from falling on top of him, allowing me to crawl out from under it.

Gasping for air, feeling shooting pain in my neck and chest, I watch as the man's thin arms buckle under the heavy shelf. Eventually, he steps back and lets the shelf fall with a heavy thud on top of the fallen books. I lean against the desk. I taste blood in my mouth.

The man scrambles for another weapon to use against me, and I jump forward with both hands and swing him into a headlock from behind. He screams in fear and claws at my face. "No! No!"

Snatching one flailing arm, I twist it behind his back and he shrieks in pain. I lower him to the floor to restrain him. I would like to use handcuffs on him, but I have not brought them with me. I have many pairs at the Cave, but because of their design, they would not come off unless cut off. They need a special cutting tool in order to be removed, but that tool is only in possession of the Gotham PD. So I use a length of nylon rope. When I am finished, I turn him around to talk to him.

I swipe blood that has trickled down my chin. I have to take a look at myself later to make certain I am not seriously wounded. "What is your name?"

"R-Ronald." He swallows anxiously, his eyes darting around the room as though he expects shadows to come to life. "Are you…the one called Ah Puch?"

I shake my head. "No." After a short cough, I ask, "Who is that?"

"She promised me that he would come to take me." His eyes fill up with tears of desperation. "Please. You have to let me go. I can't fight him like this."

He certainly has a valid point. If there are monsters in this building as there are outside, he will need his hands free in order to escape from them. "Who promised to send Ah Puch?"

He shakes his head in distress. "She's in room 218. Just please let me go. I have to get out of here as soon as—"

He stops dead. There is a door inside the office other than the one I used to enter. There is a series of heavy thuds approaching on the other side of the door, like a large person with a walking cane.

Ronald shudders and starts to wail.

"Quiet!" I snap. I reach down to my belt to pull out a utility knife. I start to saw through the nylon rope I used to tie him up. There is a final thud as the person stops in front of the door, stomping the end of the heavy cane on the ground. The floor trembles. Ronald yelps in fear.

As soon as he is freed, he scrambles up to his feet and whips out of the room, leaving behind his empty shotgun. I turn to the closed door.

I wait, ready for something to burst through the door. But nothing comes through. Instead, the footsteps resume and thunder past the door, down the corridor. When they are almost faded away, I reach for the door handle and try to open it toward myself. But it is locked. I disengage the lock and pull it open quickly, and see a tall black shadow disappear around a bend in the corridor, using a very tall rod almost as thick as the trunk of a birch tree as a walking stick.

Something drips down from above onto my cowl. I look up. Fresh blood is smeared along the three sides of the door frame—left, right and above. I glance to the right, in the direction that the tall person disappeared. This door has been passed over.


	6. Chapter 6

Six

As the sizable person turns the corner in the hallway, I take a step out of the hotel office. I check adjacent doors. They are also marked by dripping blood. My curiosity is aroused from two different directions. One, concerning the blood. Is it animal or human? The other direction pertains to the possible answer to the first. In the Old Testament book of Exodus, when the tenth plague of Egypt descended on the land , God commanded Moses to mark the door posts with the blood of a lamb. This way, the plague—which killed every firstborn of every household—would see the blood and not enter, thus passing over the home. I wonder why anyone would revert to using the history of Exodus as part of his or her M.O.

As I ponder the significance, I eject a small evidence kit from my belt. Using items prepackaged to keep them sterile, I collect a small amount of blood from three different doors. Perhaps they are all from the same same, perhaps different. The small, clear plastic tubes with screw-on lids are three inches long and three-quarter inch in diameter. They are all pre-marked with numbers. This way I can remember which tube contains evidence from which door.

Collecting evidence takes less than two minutes. My movements are deft, fluid, methodical.

Fading away are the scraping steps and stone-heavy thumps of the tall person's staff. Even after such a long time, I can still hear him. He is walking very slowly, as though old or injured. He appears far too tall to be a woman. He is built like a pillar, which makes it even less likely that he is female. It is too dark to designate posture at this time. Male and female posture varies greatly. I become one with the shadows. I follow him.

My mind automatically calculates how far he will be when I turn the corner. At his current rate, which he appears to be maintaining as steadily as the electronically regulated seconds of a chronograph, he cannot be far away. As I glide along the passageway, I know I am gaining on him.

Bruce wants to run in the other direction. This is already too much. Ravenous hyenas, acid spraying demons, blood-streaked doorposts. Ghosts that look like Rachel. The agony of guilt is unbearable. The only thing drawing him closer is the possibility that Rachel might be alive. _She wrote that letter. It was her._

As Bruce battles forward in desperation, clinging to a frayed thread of hope, I try to keep calm. Emotion leads to irrational behavior.

As I arrive at the corner, I remember bursting out of the doors of the Gotham police department. Gordon asked me where I was going. _Rachel. _

Rachel meant the world to Bruce. But to Batman, she meant nothing more than the assistant DA. She should have meant nothing more. Batman's priority must have been to save the DA. I made a mistake. A mistake that Bruce will live with for the rest of his life. _Unless, _he presses on, _unless she's still alive. _

I looked around the corner, expecting to see the enormous man only yards away. Instead he is an almost invisible shadow at the other end. I narrow my eyes, knowing my calculations were not incorrect.

I pick up my pace, never making a sound over the worn carpet in the hallway. I reach up and turn on my nightvision. The world springs into green light. The blood on the door posts—all doors are marked—look like black oil. The man at the end of the hallway opens a door. It is the door to a stairwell.

I want to slip through after him before the door closes. But I know I am too far away. I would have to run to catch it, but if I started running, he would hear me. I watch the door close before I reach it.

It is a set of double doors with long flat handles. I press my ear to the door and hear his heavy strides travel downstairs. I look around in the hallway for another access. Perhaps an elevator. I could use the shaft to go down. Opposite the stairwell, expectedly, I spot a single elevator. But the doors are open, signifying that the elevator is not in service.

I step in and look up at the ceiling. There is an access hatch on the top. However, since I intend to go down, not up, there is no need for it. I realize the only way for me to follow is via the stairwell.

I turn to the doors to listen for the man's footsteps. I want to wait until he is far away enough that he cannot hear me enter.

I reach down to grab the handle. But much to my astonishment, there is a heavy length of chain wrapped through the handles. It is padlocked with a lock as big as my fist.

Unnerved, I look down the hallway, spotting no one. Nothing.

_Impossible._

I check around me in all directions, even up. There is nothing. No one.

I would have heard it. I was in the elevator not more than one minute. My back wasn't turned that long. I would have spotted something in my peripherals. I _should _have.

There is not a chance the man I met in the office previously, Ronald, came back to play a prank on me. He had clearly been terrified, fleeing in the opposite direction. If he came to play a joke on me, I would have seen him. I never left the hallway.

Perhaps he used a different entrance? I shake my head, already knowing it is impossible. I am standing beside the only access to the other floors. The elevators and the stairwell. The elevator is broken. And I have just been inside it. Not a chance he used that.

The only slight possibility is that Ronald entered through the stairwell after the big man traveled downstairs. But to enter by the stairwell, how did he get upstairs in the first place? I remember that when I examined the exterior of the building before entering the hotel, I had seen some fire escapes on the outside of the building. Perhaps Ronald used those to enter the building on a different floor, and ultimately the stairwell? And if he managed to do so somehow, how did he vanish in a matter of seconds?

I check the lock again. I have a lock pick kit available, but I can see immediately that this is no ordinary padlock. There is no key hole. Only an indentation in the shape of an octagon. I check all around it for a keyhole, but nothing is revealed in the scratched up iron lock.

The only way for me to get upstairs now is through the elevator shaft. I can use the fire escape on the outside of the building, but that will mean more trouble.

I step into the elevator again and pull out an extendable screwdriver. I reach it up to remove the screws, but a sharp pain shoots down my neck and through my chest. I double up slightly and cough. Tiny droplets of blood fall on the floor. I wince. Perhaps I should patch myself up first before continuing. If I am coughing blood, I might be seriously hurt.

I search for a restroom on this floor, finding one about halfway when I backtrack through the hallway. One is for men, the other, for ladies.

I try the door for the men's bathroom, but it is locked. I automatically reach for the ladies room. It swings open with a loud creak of protest.

The door swings shut behind me, plunging me in heavy silence puntuated every several seconds by a loud drip from a broken tap. I walk to the line of three sinks. They are affixed on a long countertop.

I take a look at myself. With a grimace, I notice the extent of the damage to my suit. The two chest plates are half-eaten by acid. Thin lines of blood have streaked down over the black armor plates. The plates are designed to hook into a skin-tight body suit, then interlock together. Some plates are fixed in place—like those over the chest—but others overlap to give me ease of movement. The cowl is a separate portion of the suit. The security measure—a heavy electrical charge—is engaged when someone tries to forcefully remove the cowl. First I must turn off the circuit in my belt before removing the cowl. The electrical charge will not affect me—my gloves have zero conductivity. However, without turning off the charge, the locking mechanism will not lift.

When I turn off the circuit, the cowl's lock clicks as it disengages. I pull it up and off to gain access to the armor plate shielding my neck.

My face is still hidden by a second mask. This one is made of a breathable, moisture wicking fabric. It is skin tight, fitting perfectly over my scalp and under my jaw. My identity is my final line of defense. I do not remove the second mask.

The cowl sits like a pensive panther, staring into the darkness behind me. Without the cowl I do not have the night vision. I am plunged in darkness.

I take out my flashlight and use it to examine my throat after removing the neck plates. My skin is perforated with small holes from the shotgun that Ronald fired at me earlier. The blood has clotted since, but I know I must bandage it. I realize that I am coughing blood because there is a small tear on the side of my Adam's apple. This hole travels all the way to my esophagus. When I put pressure on it, I feel a sharp jab of pain to my throat, like someone has taken a knife to it. Removing the armor plating and feeling my chest, I feel that all the wounds are superficial. Fortunately, my chest cavity isn't punctured.

For the entire period, my neck plating was keeping my breathing stready, but now that the hole is open, I struggle for air. I need to place a good seal over the hole so that my breathing isn't obstructed. My breath rasps. I start to patch up the wound, rinsing it clean with water from the tap.

I lean close to the mirror, my flashlight in my mouth. I shine the light at my reflection, illuminating the wound. Water drips down under my armor, cooling my body.

The flashlight beam bounces side to side as I work.

Suddenly, a door on one of the stalls moves gently. I freeze. The water continues to gush into the sink. I hold my breath, my heart begins to race in my chest.

In the mirror, I see a slender woman peek out, her face obscured by her hair on one side, the other hidden behind the stall door. I spin around and spot her just two feet away.

She stiffens and slams the door shut. She turns the lock.

"Who are you?" I demanded, holding a finger over the hole in my neck.

She doesn't answer.

I step closer, quite sure she is the same woman that stepped in front of the Tumbler.

Bruce asks, "Rachel?"

The lock for the stall turns again, unlocking.

I push the door open. But there is no one inside.


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

I stare into the cramped empty cubicle. Nothing but a dull white commode and gray panel enclosures. In a single second my confusion dips off the side of a cliff. It threatens to spiral uncontrolled into very real terror. But I am Batman. The iron hand of vengeance. I _am _terror.

Bruce Wayne is the one that succumbs. That boy who fell in the well and faced bats and death, but escaped in the arms of his father. Bruce Wayne, that boy who faced bats and death alongside his father and mother in the alley behind an opera theater. Bruce Wayne, the boy whose soul died that day. But whose spirit lives on in me.

I step calmly back into the bathroom counter, placing the flashlight on the counter. It rolls into the sink with a scraping clatter. Reflected light bounces ghostly white squares and undulating worms on the tile walls.

I wait without removing my eyes from the empty cubicle. I am not only focused on the stall, but my peripherals are waiting to sense movement.

Reflections continue to sway, like cast-off light from the swimming pool at my manor. I turn off the tap. Silence falls like a thick blanket, cut by a couple of dripping sounds. Total silence is a few moments away. I watch. I wait.

The door to the ladies' room has not yet opened. I can assume the woman is still inside with me. While her stealth is impressive, perhaps equally matched with my own, she would still have to open the door to pass through, and I would have heard it creak. She is not an apparition.

_What if she is? _Bruce questions warily inside me.

I feel a wave of disgust and frustration. This is the same sort of emotion-muddled thinking that got Rachel killed. Suppressing such thoughts, I pick my wet flashlight. I step forward and push open the door on the right. Empty.

I turn to the one on the left. It is more than twice as big as the others—meant for people that are in wheelchairs.

I stop in front of it. Hold my breath. I listen for rustling clothing. Breathing. I feel for a presence in the room with me. But I sense nothing.

I push open the door. Logic tells me she will be here. But my instincts are sharp. I know the stall will be empty. Inside there is a low-set sink with a mirror mounted on the wall above it. The commode sits unassumingly in the corner. The stainless steel assistors on the wall gleam in my flashlight.

I scan light over the ceiling, the floor, searching for her, hiding suspended like I could do with a rappel hooked on the edge of an airvent. But I find nothing but white corners. The airvent is sealed. However, from the look of it, it is not too small for a petite woman to squeeze through. It is, however, too small for me. I step into the stall and look up at the vent. A cursory look is all it takes to reveal that the screws are sealed in place with rust. She didn't leave that way.

A secret passage perhaps? But why would there be a secret passage in a place like this?

Quickly tapping the edges of the room with my foot reveals no hollow points. Solid walls.

I check the stall she had previously occupied. The tiny spaces of wall behind the commode is solid. But as I check, I notice something inside the toilet. It is sunken all the way to the bottom, obviously some metal object. I lean in to see what it is. When I shine the light in, I see that it is a key. I fish it out with my gloved hand and turn it over. As water drips and taps onto the floor, I realize the keychain matches the ones I saw earlier behind the front desk—a patch of brown leather folded over a stainless steel metal ring with a single brass key. And burned into the chemically-treated leather is this: 218. This the key that was missing from the front desk.

I am intrigued by the peculiarity of such a find. But I do not believe in coincidences. The placement of the key was premeditated. Somehow she knew I would search the walls. She knew that I would go close enough to the toilet to find the key inside. In fact, the key must have been there even before I entered the bathroom. I never heard it splash into the water—but of course she could have placed it there quietly. I would not have heard it over the running tap water. But in that case, however, it also meant she knew I would come into this bathroom. She had, after all, been waiting for me. Very few people know me well enough to predict my next move. There is Alfred. And then there was Rachel. _Is. There is Rachel. She must be alive. _

I resume checking all the walls for a way she might have escaped. But I find nothing. Not a single tile out of place. Not a section of grout dislodged.

Left with nothing else to investigate—aside from the key and room 218—I turn back to the bathroom counter. Washing my gloved hands first, I quickly disinfect and place a seal over my throat and leave the restroom. The door creaks as expected. I wonder again how she might have disappeared from the room.

Recalling the map I had seen downstairs, I search for the other stairwell on the other end of the hotel. I check the locked stairwell again before going that way—the one with the padlock dented with an octagonal shape and no key hole. It is still locked. And the elevator is still broken.

As I walk down the long corridor, night vision on, I don't notice any signs of life. I don't hear any other patrons in the hotel rooms—and of course, why would I? All the keys at the front desk were still in place when I checked. Silent Hill appears to have been evacuated. I wonder about the reason. Perhaps it is connected to the deep holes made in the earth.

My footsteps fall almost silently on the worn carpet. My heavy cape flows fluidly behind me, practically grazing the floor.

The other stairwell is not locked. Before heading upstairs, I go downstairs—because that is where the heavyset man with a tall staff disappeared. There are two short flights of stairs. The paint is a lifeless greenish pallor in the night vision. The walls are unpainted concrete. As I approach the basement door, I begin to hear a faint rumbling. It grows louder when I put my ear near the door. The rumbling seems to oscillate, like a roaming lion. I realize the rumbling is actually a steady growling.

I check the basement door. I cannot tell if it is locked or not. When I try the handle, it doesn't budge. But it makes a slight click. The growling halts.

I take a wary step back. A snarl rips through the silence. Then a deafening bang as something slams into the door on the other side.

Miraculously, the door does not give. Again the door buckles. The floor shakes. The walls seem to crack from pressure. Again the beast crashes into the door. Then a fourth time.

I brace myself for that hulking giant to come bursting through any second. But instead, what I hear is a deep, mournful air raid alarm. It starts low and begins to whine, higher and higher. Then it crescendos and dips down again, the shrill, slicing whine distorts into a deep bellow. The beast stops trying to break the door down. There is no more growling. Only the wailing alarm. It seems to be getting louder. There is no pause in its shrill scream on the way up, nor in its guttural horn on the way down. It seems designed to induce panic rather than herald warning. I decide to pick the basement lock another time and head back upstairs toward the second floor. The alarm seems to be getting louder. It is making me grit my teeth. It makes me feel like it is going to melt my brain and make me bleed from my ears.

As I climb up I start feeling like everything is beginning to swing side to side. Within a few short steps, dizziness washes over me. My night vision falters. The alarm continues to shriek, high-pitched, deafening to the point of pain. Then it peaks. Then down it dips again, low enough to start boiling my insides.

I stumble up the stairs. My dizziness heightens as I reach the second floor landing. I trip over the last step and fall. I lay there a moment, winded, my eyesight swimming in front of me. When I am able to breathe, I wince at the skull-splitting siren. Still it has not stopped. It continues to grow louder and louder, even as I think it cannot gather anymore decibels.

Finally, my night vision fails completely. I am plunged in darkness.

The siren continues to moan.

I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them again—hardly two seconds have passed, of this I am absolutely certain—there is a pair of bare feet and thin ankles in front of me. The sight of their heavy silhouette against pitch dark startles me. I grunt and move back. For a mometn I am worried it might be the monster I saw earlier, the one that sprayed acid from its chest cavity and melted my armor plating. But these feet are not twitchy. They are steady. I raise my head to look at the person. My lips are already parted but the name _Rachel_ dies on my lips. As the young woman bends closer, the siren starts its ascent again. I feel as if a blade of ice is cutting open my skull. Blackness falls over me. Then silence.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Well, hello everyone. It's been over a year since I updated this story. I was sure that I lost all my readers by now, but it seems like there are still people who are reading and are kind enough to leave an encouraging review. Thank you so much. Following is a quick summary of events and the long-overdue Chapter Eight.

_Previously on __**Silent Hill: The Bat **__- Bruce Wayne receives a letter from his childhood friend and deepest love, Rachel Dawes. There's just one problem: Rachel Dawes has been dead for six months. _

_In her letter, Rachel says she's waiting for Bruce in a small town called Silent Hill. Suspecting foul play, Batman goes in Bruce's stead. At the entrance of Silent Hill, he meets Allen, a sarcastic teenager who's an excellent shot with the revolver, who was making his way out of the small town and who warns Batman of the dangers within. Soon clues gather together: A map from a tourist kiosk with the local motel marked. A missing key at the motel desk. And subsequently the key itself inside the ladies room. All along the way, a woman who looks like Rachel appears to be guiding him, often appearing only for an instant and disappearing as soon as Batman sees her. He also glimpses the array of monstrous and dangerous creatures to which the town of Silent Hill appears to be an accepting host. Inside the motel office, Batman meets Ronald, a frightened middle-aged man who tries to kill Batman with a shotgun and accuses him of being sent by an unnamed and mysterious female. _

_The last time Batman sees Rachel is on the landing of the stairwell leading to the basement. Just as he is about to call her name, the room begins to spin. An air raid siren begins to wail and Batman falls unconscious. _

Eight

I awaken slowly, as if I have been drugged. All around me there is darkness, the wet scent of rusted metal, which also coincidentally resembles the stench of freshly spilled blood.

I look to the left, searching for Rachel where I had last seen her. Her shadowy legs are not visible anymore.

As the air undulates with distant shrieks, metal scraping, chains rattling, I stare up at the darkness above me. I cannot see. Activating my night vision, I wait for the high-pitched hum. It never comes.

Puzzled, but not particular surprised, I wonder why my devices are not functioning reliably. Even my Tumbler faltered at the town limits, leading me to crash the vehicle and walk the remaining distance into the town.

I rise to my feet, noticing that the concrete staircase upon which I fell unconscious is now made of a metal grate. Below I see the spiraling stairs, all made of rusty metal. I pull out my flashlight. Flick it on. It works. Rachel is nowhere to be seen. At least, the woman Bruce believes is Rachel. I am, however, an unimpressed skeptic. She's never shown me her face. She's never said a word. And so far, she has not once behaved like Rachel. She's been fleeting, mysterious, and now she is beginning to anger me. This impostor is not Rachel. It cannot be. Since the beginning, since I received the letter, I have suspected this was just a trick, a trap. And now, perhaps there is more confirmation of that theory than the one Bruce holds—that it is Rachel, alive and well, but afraid and in danger from the demons lurking in the streets of Silent Hill and the darkened corridors of Riverside Motel. _But still_. Bruce holds a little hope, a desperate thing that refuses to die and see logic, a thing that fights ferociously for life, an intangible but powerful thing that, if possible, by its sheer will would bring Rachel back into existence. _She's dead, Bruce, _I tell him reasonably. But he refuses to listen.

I hear the chains rattling again. The sound is coming from above me.

I raise the beam of light overhead, to the abyssal black ceiling. The chains rattle. For a moment I cannot make out the shape. The chains rattle gently like wind chimes on a country porch. Then my eyes widen as I recognizes what is making that sound.

A warm black drop falls on my cowl. Another on my shoulder. The chains rattle again. Louder, more insistent.

I back away from the dripping fluid. There are bodies suspended above me, upside down, wrapped in decomposing gray bandages and bound with chains. Suddenly the liquid that dripped begins to hiss. The acid is rotting its way through my cape.

I take a stumbling step back, down the stairs. I shine the flashlight up, searching for more bodies. Sure enough, as the chains continue their rattling, the darkness bursts forth with more horrors, bodies upon bodies, suspended from above, all of them squirming, jerking, flinging drops of acid in a corrosive, deadly rain.

I shine the light down the stairwell shaft. As the radio in my belt compartment begins to crackle to life, I see a seething sea of heads below. Under the beam of my flashlight, the heads seize and toss back and forth. Like uncontrollable, mad psychiatric patients, their bodies wrapped in a strait-jacket of their own skin, eyes and lips sewed shut with sackcloth, their shoulders jerk spasmodically side to side, up and down. Every now and then they arch their back with a gagging, retching noise and spew acid over each other, the liquid hissing through the gray bandages and slimy flesh.

And as my beam of light scans over them, with remarkable uniformity and control, the demonic creatures turn their heads toward me. As the ones above me continues to rain acid, my suit hissing on my body like an armor of snakes, I watch in amazed horror as the creatures in the pit below adhere to the walls as effortlessly as spiders, streaking up with shocking speed, defying gravity. The ones above me shriek, muffled and anguished as they release acid down in front of me in a stream of stinking black bile. The creatures below, hundreds of them, begin to mount the stairs. They trip and trample over one another, dragging their bodies over the stairs like maggots, squirming, screaming, spraying acid.

I spin around and reach the upper landing, the radio static squealing its own terrible music, as if it is gripped with terror.

I stop dead at the stairwell exit when a pair of demons drop to the ground in front of me. They circumvented the stairs, climbed the walls and have closed me in. More are making their way, using legs to swing from dangling chain to chain, jumping with astonishing agility, even without the use of their arms. The ones mounting the stairs are just yards away behind me. The streams of acid they eject from the gaping holes in their chest spray over the calves of my boots, bathing the soles in black liquid.

The demons on the stair landing begin to trip and stumble closer, swaying wildly back and forth like they're about burst from their fleshy prison. They push against me, formless faces pressed against mine. I growl and shove them back against the door, watching in the swinging flashlight beam as they trip and totter like drunks. One of them begins to arch backwards, hocking up, rib cage pulsing, gagging, gurgling with filth. I can hear the ones behind me, inches away, the ones above, dancing closer on the chains. Acid rain drips down, black and glistening and hissing like it's alive.

As the one arching back lunges forward and spews a thick stream of black bile, I dodge to the left. The acid hits the ones at the stairs. They stumble over one another, trying to skirt around the acid, but falling over the banister of the stairs and thwacking down over the others.

As the second one on the landing begins to gag and release caustic bile, I push the one that spewed seconds ago into the other. A powerful kick sends them both careening over the banister and down into the pit, freeing my path into the corridor and out of this hellish stairwell.

When I stumble out into the corridor, the creatures lunge for me out of the darkness. I launch a rapport of blades from my gauntlet, slicing through one of the creature's heads, and lodging into the face of another. I drop the flashlight, reach down into my belt, and fling a miniature explosive into the fray. As the beeping red light vanishing into the siege, I shove the door closed. An explosion sounds, reverberating against the door, through my suit and into my body.

The gagging and retching fades. Bodies splatter to the stairwell floor, flesh hits the walls.

As I lean weight off the door, under the glow of the flashlight, black acid, steaming and stinking, pools into view. The floor is made of a slab of rusted, gritty metal. It begins to corrode rapidly under the caustic fluid.

I back away before the integrity of the floor is compromised. Soon the acid eats away a large hole, about two feet wide.

I pick up the flashlight, feeling my heart pounding rapidly. The radio has stopped screaming static.

As the creatures regroup behind the door, I check the integrity of my suit. Craters are burned into the shoulders, the back, the cowl. Holes are burned into my cape.

With a moment now, to collect my thoughts, I check my belt to see if anything has been stolen. I find the key to room 218 again, my only clue. Rachel's letter sits snugly in another compartment. The blood evidence I collected earlier is also there, still fresh.

I check the night vision again. It's not working. Beaming my flashlight forward, I walk, my footsteps clanging hollowly on the metal floor. The walls are made of solid metal, covers with a layer of rusty water marks which look like blood. Every wall, the ceiling, the floor, all of it seems to be groaning, creaking, alive. Above me squirm more creatures wrapped in chains, or enclosed in cages, tied with barbed wire, jerking, moaning, whining, high pitched and unhuman. It is a cacophony of hell.

As I walk down the corridor, observing the noises and odors coming from the walls and adjoining rooms, I wonder if someone perhaps moved me from the previous location. It could not have been Rachel—she's not strong enough. However, given this quasi-Rachel's abilities, the way she seems to appear and vanish as if she's an apparition, as if she's been trained by and inducted into the clandestine high circles of the League of Shadows, perhaps the idea of her moving me is not so far-fetched after all.

But Bruce snaps with anger at such thoughts. Rachel, endangered by the League, hated of it, would never forge an alliance with it. The thought sullies her image, her integrity. And as the theory becomes unpalatable, offensive, even to me, I realize a woman like Rachel is not open to compromises with her honor, not only as a human being, but also as a woman with a duty to the public. The Rachel I remember—the one Bruce loves—would not be initiated into the League. It lives outside the law. Not in light, but in darkness. Like me.

Soon, the theory that someone moved me is becoming invalid. I recognize the layout of the Riverside Motel. Checking it mentally against the map from downstairs, I am quickly certain that this is the same place. Except—it has changed. As if centuries have passed but I have not aged or died. As if I lay there while the building around me changed shape, grew monsters in its midst, corroded into nothing more than rusted metal and rotten, death-filled air.

Since I cannot use this stairwell to go to the second floor, I must find another way. This time, the elevator will come in handy, even though it is not working. Though missing most of the wood siding and exposing faded blue and red wiring, the elevator appears to suddenly be in working condition. I will not have to use the hatch in the ceiling after all.

I ride it to the second floor.

When the elevator gives a warbling, weak ding and the doors graze open, there is total silence on this floor. It is a shock to my ears, the roaring silence permeated only by my ragged breathing, and, when I begin to walk, my hollow clanging footsteps.

As I enter the corridor, I check the other stairwell door, at the east end. The lock with the octagonal indentation is still there. I raise the lock up for a better look. It is a solid block of metal. It doesn't show any indication of containing a locking mechanism with one consisting of traditional pins and tumblers. It is also surprisingly heavy for something that size—it is about the size of my palm, but seems to weigh more than two pounds.

As I turn away, I hear some heavy footsteps around the bend in the corridor. I turn to look, recognizing the familiar gait as belonging to the one that was 'passing over' doors that were marked with blood on the first floor of Riverside Motel.

The last time I encountered the mammoth male, as he lumbered down the hallway with the steady, rhythmic _thump-thump, thump_, he did not see me. But now, as the pounding of two huge feet and walking staff come closer, I know instinctually that letting him see me will be a dangerous mistake.

Under the overhanging, wriggling bodies of bound demons, I double back, pulling out the key to room 218. The door unlocks with a firm click and I enter. As I pass under the doorway, I notice that the doorposts are clean and slightly faded white. They are not marked with blood. I falter slightly when I glimpse a woman inside the darkened room. She's slumped in a wooden chair, facing the corner, weeping. She's lost in shadow, her blurry figure shuddering now and then.

"Thank God!" Cries a frightened man from my left.

The woman continues to weep. I shine my light on her. Her wrists are tied back, bound with rope. She's naked, beaten badly, bleeding.

"Let me out!" The man cries, trying to push past me. I let the flashlight drop, the light bouncing wild around the room, illuminating circles of bright red blood on the walls, near the wooden floorboards by the bed. Then it comes to a rolling stop over a huge patch of blood, as if someone bled out there. I grab the man by the collar and slam him against the wall. "What did you do to her?" I demanded, recognizing the man's wide, fearful eyes, his unwashen stink. It's Ronald, the man who tried to kill me with a shotgun.

Ronald grapples with my grip with one hand, trying to reach the door with the other. It slowly begins to close.

"I didn't do anything!" He protests, straining. "Don't let the door close! There's no other way out!"

The woman quiets down. Ronald clutches at my arm, cutting his hands on the remaining batarangs spring-loaded into my gauntlet. He doesn't even feel it. As blood drains from the cuts on his palm, it drains from his face when he hears the approaching, lumbering male. I catch a glimpse of a tall, hulking shadow in the corridor. The door hangs open just a sliver, for a moment. "Get the door!" Ronald shouts. But it slams with finality. "No!" Ronald wails.

I let him go. He falls, scrambles to the door. Ronald tries to squeeze his fingers into the credit card-thick space to get the door open. "No, no, no, no," he mutters frantically. He starts to search, his eyes darting around the room in search of something thin enough to pry open the door.

The figure's footsteps make the floor shake steadily, harder and harder. The creature—it's unlikely that's a man—must weigh a ton. The heavy metallic pounding of his feet and staff pause at each door before 218, checking to see if blood marks the posts.

I move to the tied woman and cut through the ropes binding her to the chair. Meanwhile, The man manages to force a shard of metal from the cot resting askew in the room. The flat, threadbare mattress bleeds insulation and is stained with old blood. Ronald uses the metal to pry the door open as the giant lumbers over on the other side.

The woman slumps forward in my arms. I catch her before she hits the ground. She's unconscious. I need an ambulance for her, but I'm certain there's no way to summon one to Silent Hill. I brush her hair from her face. I recoil in horror. It's Rachel.

Suddenly the door pounds like it's being slammed by a battering ram. Ronald screams. The metal shard in his hand bends, cuts his hands. He looks to me for help, his eyes wide and desperate. "Don't let him take me."

The giant pounds the door again. This must be the Ah Puch Ronald mentioned earlier.

The door jumps, splintering in the middle.

I lift Rachel from the chair.

The door shatters from another hit as a mangled fist forces its way in. Ronald shrieks in pure terror and scurries from the arm's reach. The giant pounds against the door. Ronald resorts to pleading. "Look, I didn't do anything to _her_." His eyes shift anxiously to the door, where the Ah Puch is laboring to break open the door. He reaches in with a massive hand, tearing away chunks of the wooden door as if it's made out of cotton. Ronald backs away to the furthest corner of the room he can. "Look, I'll tell you everything. Just please take me to the cops. Turn me in. Please, you gotta help me get out of here." He is panting, almost hyperventilating. His eyes scan over my suit quickly. "You don't have a gun on you, do you?"

Rachel stirs in my arms, groggy, confused and in pain. I toss my cape over her shoulders, enveloping her in my arms. Looking at Ronald, I mutter, "I don't use guns."

In one fell swoop, the creature tears the door from the frame. Ronald screams and as wood flies. The creature steps inside, its great stomping feet sending cracks running through the floor. Another step and the crack splits wider, longer, cutting a line between my acid eaten boots.

The creature corners Ronald to the left of the room. It lumbers closer to him. Ronald squeezes himself against the wall, into the corner, as small as he can get. "Help me!"

I lower Rachel to the floor. She clutches my arm, piercing her palms on my batarangs. She looks up me with her eyes wide, bloodshot. "Don't go. I'll protect you."

"Help me!" Ronald screams as the creature leans down and lifts him up by the arm like a rag doll.

I narrow my eyes in confusion at Rachel. She is talking nonsense.

I pull myself away from Rachel. She grabs my cape. "I sent Ah Puch. He is the bane of sinners."

I release my cape from my shoulders with the press of a button near the collar and leap onto the shoulders of the beast. It doesn't flinch. It wears a ragged black executioner's mask. I notice that the staff is topped by a serrated, twelve point spear. From it hang human skulls. Using the tall staff as a pole, I vault around and bring a two-footed roundhousing kick into the creature's face. It stumbles back, drops Ronald. But it doesn't fall.

I use the force of my own kick to catapult me back and away. I slam into the wall and fall to my feet with a stagger. "Run," I tell Ronald, who appears only too happy to scramble away like a frightened rabbit. But his pant leg snags on a piece of wood protruding from the floor. Ronald begins to panic and starts to pull frantically.

The Ah Puch is marked and cut with tattoos and burns all over its body. Jewels of solid black metal bricks have stretched holes into its skin. They clink together weightily every time the creature moves. Its mask has no holes for its eyes or mouth, but there is a hole for something like a nose, two large flaring holes in red, diseased flesh. Its chest heaves, checking for a scent. It comes closer to me, tasting the air with a panting ragged breath like a huge dog. It scans over my body, catches the smell of blood on my batarangs. It snatches my arm with shocking speed and fluidity. Then it crushes my limb. I hear the muffled crack of bones. I release a scream of agony. My gauntlet crumbles like brittle pottery.

"No, it's not him!" Rachel shouts. She jumps up, using my cape for a cover. "Stop!"

But the creature pins me by my arm to the wall. I pull my legs to my chest and wait for it to come closer. I spring my coiled legs into its face again. It releases me, teeters back. The floor cracks again, the splits widen.

Rachel jumps back from a hole opening up in the middle of the floor like the chest of those skin strapped demons in the stairwell. The floor sinks down. The bed slides down to the hole, the chair to which Rachel was tied topples and slides slowly. Ronald slides down too. He cannot find anything to grab hold of before he shrieks and goes over the edge. He clutches the tearing floor, tries to pull himself up. But he's not strong enough and the floor is no longer flat but tilted at a steep angle.

The creature huffs in rage and grabs me by the throat. I groan and feel the electrical charges from my cowl ripple into the creature's palm and bones. But it doesn't feel it.

"Bruce!" Rachel shouts. She cannot reach me from the other side of the room.

It tilts its spear. Tosses it up, catches it. The creature lifts me above its head, pins me to the ceiling. Then it lets the spearhead come to rest under me.

"NO!" Rachel shouts.

Then the creature releases me. I fall on the spearhead as the creature thrusts upward. My acid-corroded armor shatters and falls apart like black shards of glass. The spear runs me through. My body is shocked into paralysis. The creature releases the spear.

I watch as the room spins, tilts out of view. I am falling into the hole. As Rachel and Ronald's screams fade, everything goes black. Then there is silence. Then there is nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Recently finished playing all three Uncharted games on PS3. All of Batman's movements are deeply influenced by Nathan Drake's body language. Can't help it. I'll try to control it.

Nine

I hear something scraping. A lead pencil against paper. Fast and furious. Panicked.

I open my eyes. Above me is a nondescript white ceiling and a single overhead lamp. I am lying on the floor, in the middle of the room. I raise my head.

There is a woman at a round table in the corner. Her back is turned to me. She is wearing a baggy hospital gown, scribbling desperately.

I check my stomach, my arm. I am unharmed. Disconcerted, I rise slowly and silently to my feet. My cape is back on my shoulders—even the batarangs I launched into the mass of straitjacketed demons has been inexplicably returned.

Before I can stop him, Bruce ventures, in a soft voice, "Rachel?"

The woman whirls around, startled.

I put my hands up to show I mean no harm. "It's just me."

The resemblance to Rachel is uncanny—the same wavy brown with luscious highlights, the slightly upturned nose, the wide innocent eyes. But the lips are slightly fuller, the skin slightly darker. Perhaps this woman is Hispanic. She clutches a pendant around her neck, her fist wrapped over it. "Stay back." It's Rachel's same, husky, delicious voice, but this woman has an accent.

Disappointment sinks Bruce's heart. But the woman I saw before in the room, that was Rachel. There is no doubt about that. Bruce adamantly refuses to believe it was a mistake. _Rachel is here, I know it._ "Look, I'm just a man." I take my mask off. There is nothing left but the stretchy half-balaclava that leaves the lower half of my face visible. Eye-black surrounds my sockets. "You've been shadowing me. Who are you?"

She eyes the door nervously, fiddles with the pencil, and massages her pendant like it's an amulet to ward off evil.

Then she makes a sudden burst for the door. She clutches the frame to swing herself out of the room and to the left.

I bolt after her as she runs with bare feet over the thinly carpeted hallway. She jumps into the elevator, hits the button. She turns aside and slips her slender body inside. She frantically slams the button for the doors.

I lunge. But I don't make it. I slam into closed doors.

I check the stairwell access—locked. I have to go the other end. If my injuries have been reversed—or never happened in the first place—then the stairwell must be empty and clear for me to pass through.

As I turn away from the elevator, I see that the panel to use is ripped out of the wall, hanging by shredded and damaged wires. I frown. How did she use it?

I pick up the panel, press the button. The elevator isn't working.

I'm baffled. I look over my shoulder, knowing she came running this way. And I followed her. I followed her and watched her get into the elevator, slam the button to travel down—or perhaps up, there might be roof access. I am about to turn away when I see a pendant on the floor. It is the one she was wearing around her neck. It is octagonal in shape, heavy, made of stone-like metal, slightly lustrous like lead. I instantly recognize that it is the key to the unconventional lock on the stairwell door.

Picking it up, I return to the room. The need to make sense of what has happened is suddenly more pressing than chasing her down. Bruce, on the other hand, is certain that this woman knows Rachel's whereabouts. Without any logical evidence his assumption is purely wishful thinking. He demands to go after her, _now_, but I have to know what I'm dealing with. I cannot go blindly. The last time I did such a thing, it cost Rachel her life.

The hotel room lies empty now, except for a blunt fallen pencil with teeth marks from a person with a chewing habit. There is also the paper on which the woman was writing. And a beige manila folder, like a hospital file. Diaz, Raquel.

I take the letter and begin to read.

_I have prayed to the gods for deliverance and they have promised to come. See the markings inside the temple walls, the only temple I have ever known. The markings will lead the way to salvation for those that seek it. The gods have made me their prophetess and should I die I will have the power to wreak vengeance upon those who have my blood on their hands. Beware all ye sinners that have conspired against me, the gods are willing your demise. Thou shalt be cast down as sacrifice, thy blood shall adorn the altar, kill me and fear me ye devils in man's flesh, the gods shall come, I have sent the Ah Puch, master of death, fear me ye that have my blood on your hands, thine hour is near and there is no escape, unless ye should repent and seek salvation. _

There is a scream from outside. It's muffled by the window, which is sealed off by several boards of wood nailed to the wall. I run to look through the cracks and see that the young woman is being pursued by the straitjacketed demons. She uses a stick to hit one out of her way and runs, disappearing into the fog.

Snatching my mask from the floor, I run to the hallway.

I place the octagonal pendant she dropped, a stone, into the indentation, and the lock chimes deeply twice, like temple bells, then disengages. I fling open the door, and leap over the banister, jumping to the next floor in seconds. I climb the banister to the door on the first floor, break it open and run outside.

I hear another scream, far away, lost in the fog.

I run after the voice. "Rachel!"

The radio in my evidence pouch begins to whine and crackle.

My voice has heralded a couple of those same demons, twitching, tripping closer. They are just feet away, close enough to arc backwards and spray me with acid again. I run. There's no time to fight these off.

There is blackish blood on the asphalt, in the middle of the road, like a dragged body. Bruce feels a sudden surge of fear. I am forced to find the source. I sigh with relief when I see that the body doesn't belong to Rachel, but a demon. It is lying in a church yard, leaned against the statue of the archangel Michael fighting a dragon. It is still twitching as a pair of hell hounds are feasted on its rotten innards. The dogs notice me and stop feeding. The radio is whining, high-pitched, like a whistle.

The hounds turn, blunt tails throbbing back and forth in calculation. I turn away, only to find the straitjacketed demons behind me. I am surrounded on all sides. My eyes look upward for something to grab. I spot a stone gargoyle perched on a protrusion through the fog. I pull out my grapple gun and fire. The gun bursts a wire into the foggy night. There is the reassuring _shhink_ of the grapple attaching to the gargoyle's base. With a quick flick of my fingers I secure the line on my belt, engage the wire and let the wire catapult me vertically into the air. The creatures converge below where I stood just seconds ago and vanish into the swirling gray fog.

I approach the gargoyle at a dangerous speed but I am ready to swing myself to safety when the gargoyle breaks off. I grunt in surprise. My presence of mind helps me grab the broken edge as the gargoyle and its base tumble out of sight. The stone thwacks into the group, making a moist, flesh-pounding sound.

I pull myself up. Arms out for balance, I walk the long narrow protrusion to the roof. A Gothic stone cross mounted on the steeple tells me this is a church. I step cautious over the loose shingles, tilted at a forty-five degree angle. A shingle slips loose underfoot, then another. I stumble, jump for the tip of the slanted roof. The shingles fall and shatter like delicate porcelain.

I pull myself up and spot a glass skylight, square and filthy with ash and grime. I brush aside the dust, look inside. Rachel—or perhaps Raquel, it's difficult to tell—is inside, sitting in a pew, all alone. I watch as she stands suddenly at a person who approaches from behind the pulpit. I lean lower, tilt my head for a better look. I turn on the night-vision. It's worthless in the fog, but the church is clear of it. I watch the woman approach Raquel, who is backing away from her. "Stay away from me!"

The woman is dressed in a shabby nun's outfit. The wimple is torn, shedding locks of lackluster hair. The woman's robe is torn in many places. Then her head rocks back and forth, twitches. Then to my surprise it snaps backwards in a sudden and painful angle. Her arms begin to bend and break backwards. She falls and her legs do the same. A scream finally escapes her, one that is shockingly human and I realize that this woman is alive, not one of the monsters. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Forgive me. Help me," she rasps as blood spills from her mouth. Her body contorts of its own accord and she screams again. Ribs begin to poke against the fabric of her robes and suddenly they're tearing through it. The church begins to shudder. Shingles begin to grind and slide down the roof, breaking down below. The glass under me cracks suddenly. When I try to grab the edge, it shatters and I fall through. A yell escapes my throat. Then I crash into the pews. I lose consciousness for a few seconds. When I wake up there are chunks of wood surrounding me, broken pews and Bibles and Catechisms strewn all over the place. I cough and taste blood. My head is ringing from the fall and suddenly I realize that the ringing is familiar. It is the same whining alarm. _Not again._ Nausea assaults my stomach as I extricate myself from the mangled pews. Rachel backs away from me. "Don't go," I moan. "It's not safe." I cannot hear myself speak. "Rachel. I can't lose you again."

er hHerHer

Her body and face are rife with terror. It's not Rachel, I tell Bruce, but he sees no one else but her.

The floor shudders. Over the wailing alarm I feel the floor trembling with rhythm. I look up at the pulpit and see the Ah Puch looming over the contorted nun. The whining grows so shrill I clap my hands over my ears, helpless to protect myself from it. I groan when that doesn't help block the sound out. It reverberates in my eardrums, my brain quivers with the sounds and there is nothing I can do as Rachel runs out of the church and the Ah Puch points the spearhead downward and rams it into the mouth of the nun, running her through from mouth to between her legs. Her jaw splits apart, then her throat, widening to accommodate the width of the spearhead. She lives just three seconds longer, her eyes rolling, capillaries bursting. Then she's dead.

I grab the pews, holding them, trying to run. I'm no longer in control. Bruce takes over. My finicky ally, fear, is now my enemy.

"Rachel!" I shout and try to go after her. But my body doesn't cooperate and the nausea is wreaking havoc on my belly. I fall, double up until the worst of it passes. Then stagger for the exit. But there are creatures coming in. I don't know how Rachel evaded them, but they're pouring in now, hell hounds and skin-coated demons, vomiting black acid and blood on the church steps and aisle. I spot a side door and lurch for it. I fling the door open and stumble inside. It is a narrow room, not even three feet deep. I use my legs to kick the door shut and hold it there.

The whining in my ears heightens. I cannot even hear myself scream in pain. Then like the sound has changed into a tangible sword, I feel a cold, excruciating stab of pain in the middle of my head. I sink to the floor. The strength leaves my legs and the monsters pour in, begin to bite down on my armor. Acid begins to spread on the floor like an amorphous creature of its own.

I turn and see a pair of bare feet beside me. Through the thronging demons I see Rachel's silhouette. She's there as suddenly as she disappeared, and stands still as the demons surround me. She doesn't help. And I don't beg her for help. I deserve this, for what I let happen to her. She turns and vanishes.

The whining air raid siren heightens and dips low. Up and down. As the acid begins to eat through my boots, then my greaves, knee guards, it begins to slowly corrode my skin. I feel it, my skin melting, turning into a slimy substance, but there is no pain. I close my eyes and accept it.

When I open my eyes again, I don't know how long has passed and what happened. But I'm not in that room anymore with demons mauling me. The walls are made of rusted steel and there is a grate below me. Bodies are dangling from above, suspended as if in midair, bodies that are hogtied, bodies that are hanging upside down, bodies that are swaying gently from nooses wrapped tightly around a broken, stretched-out neck. I'm back in the hellscape.

I rise to my feet. The nausea is passed, but I am a nervous wreck. My eyes roam uncontrollably through the room, expecting an attack from any angle, any side, at any moment.

I begin to walk. The nightvision, as suspected, doesn't work. The flashlight is my only aid for now. I streak the beam back and forth, watching as my shadow is mirrored under me, like a reflection in glass. It is black and defying gravity—or rather, it's using a different exertion of gravity, one that is opposite the one forcing me. When I shift left, it moves with me, doesn't miss a beat. When I move right, it goes right. When I stop and peer down at it, I see a dark face peering back, even though I shine the light on it. The only things that stare back are a pair of white pinpricks where the eyes should be, like two lone stars in an inky black sky, twinkling, dancing under the light of my flashlight.

I walk deeper into the vast room, unnerved that I can find no walls. The room reaches into darkness, impenetrable by my flashlight, never-ending, like a basement parking lot with no signs or markings or lights to lead the way.

My footsteps clang over the metal grate flooring. The disconcerting thing is that the footsteps of my shadow also make sounds. The footfalls are sometimes in unison with mine, sometimes a fraction of a second before, or after. The longer it walks along beside me, the more I begin to think it is not merely a reflection, but another creature like the many that haunt the hellscape of Silent Hill.

I keep walking, eyeing my mirror more than where I'm going. I'm jarred by the sudden appearance of a hole. The creature is standing at the edge, below me, watching me as I watch it, curiosity rather than anxiety marks its posture. I am about to circumvent the hole when the creature begins to move on its own, as if sensing my thoughts and beating me to it. It begins to walk slowly around the edge, as if skirting around a pond at a gentle, relaxed pace, cape swaying gently, posture confident, unafraid. I move back, not knowing what to expect. The creature stops across from me, across the hole, upside-down, hanging like a bat.

He stares at me for several seconds, and I at him. I wait for him to make the first move so I can use a counterattack.

For a long time we stand like this, staring, waiting.

Then suddenly the ground moves. The whole room begins to shudder. The bodies above jostle on their chains, the links tinkling together, the ropes are stretched taut, making the sound of friction. And suddenly it stops.

I have looked away for a moment, and am startled to discover that he is suddenly level with me. He is made of inky black, with no form to his armor except an outline, no reflection to his cape. He begins to move around the hole toward me, keeping along the edge. I begin to walk the opposite way, and I know that I have immediately accepted the role of the hunted, even as he assumes the role of hunter. I stop moving. He doesn't. He advances, closer and closer.

I brace myself for an attack, raising my fists, not knowing what will come.

But as he comes up to me, I don't sense an attack. My fists sink down. He stops less than six inches away, face to face, exactly my height, and still his eyes are pinpricks of white light, his face nebulous. The rest of his body reflects no light, but sucks in the glow of my flashlight like a black hole. "Who are you?" I mutter.

He reaches a hand up and places it on my chest. I find myself raising my own hand, doing the same.

Without warning, an overwhelming sense of guilt and sadness engulf me. I want to pull away, but he takes his free hand and presses my hand closer and closer to his chest. Soon my hand disappears inside the black mass of his torso. I try to pull away, but my resolve is weakened by the crushing emotions. He raises both his hands now, and before I can pull away, he wraps his arms around my neck and flings us both over the edge of the hole.


End file.
